


Brink of Memories

by Saraste



Series: 2019 Advent Ficlet Challenge [7]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: 7. ashes and soot, Advent Ficlet Challenge 2019, M/M, Not all warm and fuzzy, Winter, shirehusbands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2019-12-07
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:47:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21709201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saraste/pseuds/Saraste
Summary: Thorin builds a fire in Bag End during a cold winter evening while Bilbo watches.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Series: 2019 Advent Ficlet Challenge [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1558918
Comments: 2
Kudos: 30
Collections: 2019 Advent Ficlet Challenge





	Brink of Memories

**Author's Note:**

> Written for day 7. ashes and soot of the Advent Ficlet Challenge 2019.
> 
> I really tried making this a bit more cheerful, but it's been raining over here since Wednesday, and it's cold and dark and we lost our snow, and this idea simply wouldn't leave me. Possibly also influenced by charmingly melancholy Finnish Christmas songs, especially the one that goes along the lines of "life only lasts a moment, and that one gloomy and depressing to boot as well..." (And people think why Finns are weird.)
> 
> Also, not everyone feels particularly cheery during winter, and the Holidays especially can be a hard time.

When the cold of a December frost snapped outside the comfortable cosiness of Bag End, there was nothing more fulfilling than watching Thorin build a fire into the fireplace in their sitting room, a room echoing with memories old and new, yet both of their favourite because of its innate welcoming comfort, even if they always spent more time in the kitchen, where Bilbo still chasing away the lingering gauntness of Thorin’s face by way of food and cheerfulness, or the master bedroom, where they held onto each other, sharing intimacies and each other’s nightmares. Thorin’s hands were sure and steady as he cleaned away the remains of the old fire and built up a new one, humming a familiar tune under his breath, most likely not even aware of it. A song about mountains, mist and a lost home.

Sometimes Bilbo’s breath hitched as he did so, and that was when he always reminded himself of all the joys they had, how life was good, now. If Thorin heard him, he never said and Bilbo never asked about the humming, the humming of a song Thorin never sang aloud now, not when lost voices, ones still echoing in the room and their memories, wouldn’t join him.

That moment on the brink of memories was always broken by the first spark Thorin struck from his flint, the swirling tendril of smoke rising from the tinder as the fire began taking hold.

They share a smile with each other when the fireplace was filled with merrily dancing flames, instead of the ashes and soot that had filled it before Thorin’s labours. Bilbo never grew tired of Thorin’s smile, especially this one reserved just for him. The smile that shared his joy in their calm life, a smile that meant that Thorin might have broken, but had not bent, that there was still joy to be had even after loss. That one could still feel happy, be allowed, finding pleasure in things big and small, _to live_.

Frost was blooming on the windows, and a moderate amount of snow gathering at the corners of the separate screen, there would be enough snow in the morning to have fauntlings running through it and mould it to balls, weather permitting, when morning came. Fauntling and laughter, both of which were always a good thing. A joy.

Winter was not kind on Thorin, being cooped up inside with too many thoughts, too many shadows of the past, instead of spring and summer and autumn spent outdoors, healing and still wondering at the greenness of the Shire, the captivating beauty of it’s rolling hills, and the steadfast support of Bilbo, who was never too far off.

Warmth was spreading through the room and Bilbo had sat on the braided rug, which had come out of his mother’s glory box, snuggling to Thorin’s side as his husband wrapped his arm around him and held him close, and if Thorin’s hand trembled a little, it was a thing that bore mentioning. They stared at the fire together, drawing warmth from the sight of it, counting their blessing and looking forward, not back, even when they never forgot… nor forgave.


End file.
